


This, and other surefire ways to cure self doubt.

by orphan_account



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, X-Factor (Comics)
Genre: Dupecest, Kissing, M/M, Oral Sex, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-13
Updated: 2013-02-13
Packaged: 2017-11-29 04:13:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/682645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jamie Madrox has a hard time holding himself together -- what with being able to split into multiple copies of himself and all -- and, sometimes, he likes to feel good about himself. Who better to remind him of his virtues than the manifestation of all narcissistic thought?</p>
            </blockquote>





	This, and other surefire ways to cure self doubt.

Here’s the thing — I’m not gay.

Yeah, I know: big talk from the guy who watches Project Runway without any traces of irony. And, sure, one time I spent four hours watching LOGO before realizing it wasn’t a marathon of America’s Next Top Model I was watching. But I’m not gay. Really, I’m not. Even if I was — I’m not part of the scene. I’m not nearly involved enough, or political enough, to be able to take a stand at admit it. Not openly, anyway. 

“Everybody’s a little gay” — thanks for that, Honey Boo Boo — if we’re going that route, if we’re being _technical_ , then yeah. I am. I can’t really deny it, even if I wanted to. It’s hard to deny any aspect of yourself when one quick smack to the head turns your inner demons, every intimate detail of your personality, real.

What I am, though, is broken. So fucking broken it’s a miracle I function most days. Even then, it takes three cups of coffee before I can respond to verbal commands and six before I can fake a smile. Maybe it’s part of being a mutant, this feeling inadequate and unloved and like some green scaly lizard monster, but I don’t know for sure. Everybody else seems to keep themselves in check pretty easily.

It’s hard to keep yourself in check when every part of your being is vying for total supremacy of a mind, body, and soul that’s hardly worth the effort.

“You need to stop thinking like that,” I said to myself. Or, rather, a secondary construction of myself says to me-me. 

I jump, head tilting up and eyes opening abruptly. I’m caught short — real short. My body is relaxed, flaked out on the couch of my Hell’s Kitchen apartment, and when I say relaxed, I mean it. My pants are five feet away from me, messily strewn on the floor, and my hand is quite firmly wrapped around my, well — you know.

“By that I mean, uh, cut the whiny shit. Keep thinking about Emma Frost. What a babe.” I’m just as naked in duplicate form as I am in my own skin, standing awkwardly in front of me, a little too close for comfort. He’s rock hard, too, flying at full mast. I groan, closing my eyes.

“Back in you go,” I mutter, and begin the silent, painless process of reabsorbing the dupe. In a flash, he’s gone, and once again I’m alone in the dirty bachelor’s apartment, dick in my fist, feeling worse than I did before. 

That’s happened once or twice before — multiplying when I’m trying to _relieve_ myself. It’s happened during sex, too, one thrust too hard and suddenly I’m in the middle of a very uncomfortable menage a trois. I’m pretty good at controlling it, though. They say nobody knows your body as well as yourself, and that goes double when even showering to get rid of a hangover can go from a party for one to a group dinner with one slip of the soap.

My hands both go limp o my sides, rolling my head backwards against the wall. Lost my buzz. Not even the photo manipulation of Emma Frost I saw on Google can keep me going now. 

“Man, are we depraved or what?”

Again, I groan, lolling my head to the side. I don’t bother opening my eyes, knowing full well what would be waiting for me when I do. 

“A woman like Emma would never notice us.”

“In,” I mutter, and pull him back into my psyche. Night’s like this, apparently anything’ll set me off. Careful not to make any sudden impacts, I turn over on the couch, fixing myself a cushion headrest, staring out at the blank, black screen of the t.v. 

This is where the whole ‘I’m not gay’ argument comes in. I’m not. I’ve never had sex with another guy. I’ve never really wanted to. But I’m not about to turn down a compliment from somebody who wants to give it, and on night’s like this, I’ll take every grain of confidence I can get. Part of the problem with living in a place like Mutant Town is that unless you’re a Morlock or the Blob, you’re probably good looking. Seriously, have you even seen an ugly mutant? At least one that lives on the surface? 

Fishing for compliments isn’t easy when you’re surrounded by people who can change their appearance, or control your mind, or manipulate the pheromones in the air. Especially when all you can do is make infinitely more copies of yourself. It’s supply and demand — and when there’s no demand, there’s no point to increasing the supply.

I punch myself in the shoulder, quickly reaching down on the ground, hoping to grab my pants, but they’re a bit too far for me to reach. My hand intimately covers my own nether regions, even though I know I’m about to be face to face with just me, but they oblige my sensibilities and toss the jeans in my direction. “Thanks,” I murmur.

“You’d look better without the pants. _We’d_ look better.”

“You might,” I counter, placing the chunk of fabric over myself, but not putting it back on.

I feel the weight of the couch shift and I sit down next to myself. “You’re better than this. You don’t need me here to tell you anything you don’t already know.”

“I like hearing it from somebody else.”

My dupe laughed quietly, and I opened my eyes, seeing him at my feet, staring towards the window, shades pulled over to stop daylight from coming in too strongly, but the curtains just thin enough to see the silhouette of the buildings across the street through the fabric. “We’re the sexiest man in all of Manhattan. You _know_ our dick’s twice as big as Guido’s. And when was the last time we didn’t make a girl come?” 

My heart starts pounding in my chest, and I want to argue each point, make some sort of counterweight to each claim. I can’t believe anybody else, how can I believe myself? Especially a copy of myself with an ego big enough to sink an iceberg. But I stay quiet, and I shut my eyes, and he keeps talking. “Don’t you remember that time we fooled around with Darcy? How wet we made her?” His voice went huskier, speaking from his throat. “She wouldn’t let us leave her apartment for two days. That’s how good we are.”

Burying my head back on the pillow, my hand slips under the jeans covering myself, starting to feel myself growing hard again, the blood returning to my extremities. I make a few cursory tugs, trying to stifle a moan. The dupe says nothing for a moment, and I know he’s looking at me, but I keep my eyes shut and focus on myself. 

“She still wants us — she still calls us, but we get to play hard to get,” he went on, keeping his voice from shaking. “The longer she waits, the wetter she gets for us.” 

I moan this time, and my hand comes down too quickly on my pelvis, the fist hitting against the skin with a slapping sound, but I ignore it, carrying on. It takes me a few moments to realize the dupe stopped talking, and for a second I think he’s relieving himself too, and I try not to think to hard about it because it makes my head hurt just to picture, but then I feel a hand on my leg and panic mode sets in. “No—no, bad touch, no touch.” I should be reabsorbing the dupe, but I don’t, because it feels good to have human contact on my skin, even if it is my hand. 

Instantly, the hand pulls away. Too quickly, like it had been a mistake and there was some shame for having done it, and I open my eyes, and the sight I see is one that would usually give me heartburn — I see me kissing myself, like some terrible Twilight Zone plot twist. Narcissist-me is leaned back slightly on the couch, head tilted up as a third me, I don’t know which me, forced their lips together. 

My fist tightens around myself.

Hands are moving too quickly, but with incredible precision. The new dupe rests his hands right where I like them, a sensitive spot of skin at the side of my chest, and even though they’re distinct bodies and I can’t feel what they feel, some phantom sensation slips through and I let another moan out of my throat, but they pay me no mind, they just continue the most perverted make-out session I’ve ever seen. I don’t ask them to stop, I don’t reabsorb them, I just keep stroking myself slowly, brushing the jeans off of me. 

My brain isn’t processing right, so distracted by what’s happening on my couch, but it is struggling to figure out _what_ part of me that is — gay me? Would-screw-anybody-I’m-so-horny-and-desperate me? Some heavily, heavily buried part of myself that’s apparently been longing for some dupe-on-dupe action — incest? — this whole time?

I guess it doesn’t matter. Whatever they are, they’re just me, and I’m the depraved one laying there touching myself to it. 

The jeans hitting the floor seem to attract their attention, and the kissing stops for a moment as they turn to look at me. “Anybody would be lucky to have you,” says the dupe underneath, my inner ego, pausing for breath. “And until then, you’ve got yourself.”

It makes sense that narcissistic me would be into this masturbatory fantasy. 

“Which dupe are you?” I ask, voice cracking, still jerking myself around, slowly and deliberately. 

He pulls himself off of me — the other me — and comes closer. I know every inch of the body coming towards me. Its quirks, its deformities, its sensitive areas. His knees drag along the couch, and he straddles over me, and I resist every urge to flail and panic. His cock, solid, hangs straight down, brushing against my stomach, and the desire to vomit rises, and for a second I consider reabsorbing him, but then he kisses me — I kiss me? — and for the second after the first second, everything in the world starts making sense.

“You can fight it all you want,” I say to myself — he says to me, god I don’t know anymore. What’s the one that isn’t your ego? The id. My id. He’s my id. My Id says to me. “And you can reabsorb us, and pretend like it never happens, but we both know that you can’t forget about something like this. You know it exists, now—you know that somewhere, somehow, you want this. So don’t fight it.”

My eyes narrow slightly. “I’m not fighting it?” I say, though it came out more as a question in my struggle to rationalize it. 

Id smiles down at me, lowering his body onto mine. I feel my warmth become his warmth, and his becomes mine, and it feels oddly like reabsorbing him, but he’s still there, still corporeal. “I know everything you like,” he whispers, and I feel his hands move right where I like them, and I groan, turning my head to the side. My neck is exposed then, and right away I feel lips pressing against them, hard and heavy, and the nipping of teeth tugging at the skin, and against my better judgement I urge it forward, hands on the back of his head, pushing him against me. 

“How long have I been—?” 

“Too long.” It’s Ego that time, Id hardly able to take his lips off of me. I turn my head back around and he stops, pulling a few inches away, and our mouths connect, but he’s scrambling back onto the couch, and I go along with him, sitting up, our legs tangling together as he perches on my lap. 

His hand wraps around my cock, squeezing tightly. I muffle a moan, looking down at the fight, realizing it’s my own, except not, the same in every way except it’s not connected to my own body. When he strokes me, it feels like a stranger’s hand tugging on me, and that makes it ok in my head, not that it would have stopped me either way. It feels too good, too right, to stop it now. 

I angle myself on the couch, legs hanging over the sofa, feet touching the ground. Id stays where he is, leaning in and kissing my neck just to my side, maintaining a slow stroking rhythm on my shaft. Ego moved, then, climbing off the couch to move to the other side, hand sliding up my chest. My head rolled back, and I was careful not to hit it against the wall in case the manifestation of my doubt and guilt came forward, and I hissed out a ‘fuck’. 

Over the next few moments, the sensations went from pleasure to euphoria. I felt the moist enveloping of lips around my head, a tongue dancing on the mushroom cap, pressing into the soft mount of flesh. I whimper, squeezing my eyes shut tight as I can, hand curling around the short hairs of Id’s head, pushing him down. I know I like it rough, and I force him onto my shaft. He coughs, and it vibrates down the sensitive underside of my cock. Ego, next to me, presses his lips to mine, catching me off-guard. Our mouths intertwine, and he sticks his tongue into my throat, and I truly get to experience my own taste.

I taste good. And apparently I agree, as Id makes a moan, lapping his tongue along the whole of my cock. My knees quiver, and I have to stretch my legs out, savouring the feeling. My legs spread further apart, Id slipping into the space between them on the floor. He takes the whole of the length, pressing himself against the brush of shaved pubic hair on my pelvis. My hand firms around his head, holding him down. I hear him gag and sputter, but I force him to remain there. Because we’re so close, I can sense some of his pain, as he chokes on his own cock, but it only enhances my pleasure of him on my dick, and Ego restraining my breath in a kiss.

Then I do something I’m none too proud of — and in a story like this, I guess that’s saying something — I come. The warm, opaque ropes shooting out of me against my will, coating that back of Id’s throat. I force myself to pull away from Ego, panting, my chest pounding in my throat. “Th—that doesn’t usually…”

“We know,” they said in unison, and even as my body tensed I let out a hoarse laugh. Id pulls himself fully off of me and back onto the couch, and from there it’s a moment of awkward synchronicity as three identical triplets shift their weight, stark naked, two of them rock hard and raw, then there’s me, with a swollen, spit-and-sperm covered dick, panting. I realize the whole situation could be alleviated if I just absorbed them again, the awkward silence almost too much for me to handle, and I know that in twenty minutes there’s going to be a lot of denial going on, but for right now, there was less shame in being there with my accomplices. 

The rest of the dupes could say what they wanted, but these were the only two aspects of myself I knew wouldn’t judge me. 


End file.
